


A Promise Made

by Parthenopaon



Category: Book of the Ancestor Series - Mark Lawrence
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Just pure heartwarming fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 10:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17020980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parthenopaon/pseuds/Parthenopaon
Summary: Ara placed a courteous kiss between Nona’s knuckles before tossing an arm about her waist. “It’s something to consider. Neither of us is going to walk the Path to the Ancestor wearing the Red. I plan to grow old and cranky, and I’d love to have you here, scowling and muttering about young novices getting in the way.”“Is that a promise?”“It better be. I’m not going anywhere without you, Cage.”Nona and Ara spend time cuddling in the winegrove and make a promise to grow old and cranky together.





	A Promise Made

“Do you miss anything about home? Besides the expensive clothes, over large house and Sis balls?”

Ara laughed. “So everything?”

“There must be something you miss more than most.”

The Corridor wind was but a whisper among the interconnected branches of the winegrove. They lay across one of many grassy paths cutting a straight line through the myriad rows, one of Ara’s large blankets providing cover from damp grass. The branches hung thick with grapes, dark purple hides glowing in the light of the setting sun. Nona speculated they would be gathered within the span of a few days to begin the process that would ultimately result in Sweet Mercy’s deeply coveted Sweet Brandy.

Ara shuffled closer and propped her head up with a fist, looking down on Nona with deeply amused eyes. “Are you going to ask me if I want to leave you again?” Her picturesquely unruly curls spilled down her shoulders and tickled across Nona’s face, the light fragrance still elusive after all these years spent together. 

Nona blinked several times too fast, opened her mouth, realized her tongue was frozen immobile and clamped her jaw closed with an audible clack. The flush that burned through her ears would no doubt mark her cheeks in a red splash of guilt soon enough. “I didn’t ask that,” she blurted. Really. She hadn’t.

“You didn’t have to,” Ara said. “Your face was more than transparent enough.”

In some aspects Nona had proven herself a more than phenomenal liar but in others… Well, the Poisoner would no doubt be disappointed by her substandard performance. 

“Ugh.” She blew several strands of hair from her eyes. “Fine. That’s what I meant. Are you happy now?” She sincerely hoped Ara wouldn’t embarrass her further by gloating.

Long, graceful fingers combed back her hair, the look on Ara’s face one of contentment. “You’re going to need a trim soon enough. Unless you want Sister Wheel to give another speech on harlotry with you as inspiration and subject.”

The nun had taken it upon herself to dedicate entire lessons to the reason why wild black hair was considered a mark of the Great Whore. And Nona, sitting with her back against the furthest wall, scowling at Mistress Spirit from under the black shock of her hair, would be subject to the nun’s watery, baleful glare for longer than should be permitted by laws of man and Ancestor.

“Sister Wheel can take a long trip off the nearest cliff to the Ancestor’s Path.” Just for her sake, Nona stood content to grow her hair out until Abbess Glass herself chased after her with sheep shears, or until Sister Tallow had her head shaved for posterity's sake alone. Spite, as she had learned over the years, was a greater motivator than many. It also helped that Ara seemed to enjoy running her fingers through Nona’s thick, utterly untamable hair. The feeling of short, blunt nails scratching along her scalp was such that Nona often found herself all but melting into a contented puddle beneath Ara’s expert attentions. It should be considered blasphemy for anyone to be able to calm her rage with a mere bit of petting. “Are you going to answer my question now or wait until I’m old and grey and deaf as a doorpost?”

Ara snickered before saying in a more subdued voice, “I miss my family a lot, of course. Mother and Father, especially. But most of all?” Her fingers trailed from Nona’s hair, across the line of her jaw to rest gently against the hollow of her throat. “I think that would be Old Jenny. Her cooking, at least. The woman herself is quite cantankerous.” There was no real heat or complaint tainting her voice, so Nona supposed she was also fond of this Old Jenny.

“She was the cook then?”

“One of them. She usually made the cakes and porridges.” Her eyes widened and she leaned even closer when she whispered, “Oh, porridge! Nona, believe me when I say you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Old Jenny’s berry porridge.” She sighed, her eyes half lidded. It was a terribly sultry look. “It is to die for. Or kill for, certainly.”

Nona, who had never killed anyone for food and didn’t plan to make a habit of it anytime soon, arched a brow. “Are you sure you aren’t exaggerating?” It was, after all, only porridge.

Ara reared back like she’d been slapped. “Are you doubting me? Over this?! When has my taste in food ever let you down?” She couldn’t have been more offended had Nona proclaimed her a peasant born bastard before the whole of the Sis and declared her mastery of the trances utterly mediocre at best.

“With this chai thing the Sis seem to love so much, for one.” Nona pursed her lips. “It tastes little different from the foul brews Sister Rose is always pouring down my throat whenever I’m confined to the sanatorium.” Not to mention the sausage made of meat so mysterious it’d sent her running for the Necessary with all the speed her legs could muster. That day was one of darkest remembrance, for she had almost, almost not quite made it… Nona shuddered and banished the thought from her mind. 

“I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.” Ara pouted. “But I’m not joking. Half the cooks are ready to sell their children for Old Jenny’s recipes, while the others hope staying in her good graces will be good enough.”

“Will it?”

“Absolutely not.” Ara snorted. “If you think Sister Tallow is tough as nails, you should stand face to face with Old Jenny on a bad day. Even the head cook jumps to ask how high and how far whenever she enters the kitchens.” She sounded fond and wistful, her blue eyes bright yet far away as her thumb stroked across Nona’s pulse. She had been denied a visit to Verity after the abbess learned her mother and father had departed for a ball near half the empire away. 

Nona was all too glad to have her to herself this seven-day. “You miss more than Old Jenny and her porridges.”

After a long moment Ara’s eyes refocused. “You’re right. I’m feeling wistful about my childhood and the good old days and look at me, I’m not even twenty yet!” She was clearly exasperated. “It was just a simple question and here I am looking back and wishing I was six again. Ugh. Imagine me when I’m thirty-five. Or fifty! I’ll probably be muttering like Wheel about how ‘not all progress is good progress’ or something.”

Nona entwined  her fingers with Ara’s, stroking her thumb across the veins standing out against the back of Ara’s hand. “You’re not the only one who sometimes wants to go back.” She was willing to sacrifice almost anything to warn her father of the fate that awaited him beneath the black ice. To listen and remember the droning of his voice as he told her tales of the creatures that roamed the grey ice, his hand large and comforting on her shoulder. Almost anything, but not this. “The past is iron, but tomorrow has yet to be born. Look back and hope, but always remember to return home to us.”  _ To me. _

Ara smiled, slow and gentle. “You really should take up poetry. I’m sure Sister Kettle would be delighted.”

“So the whole of the empire can listen to me wax lyrical about blood and slaughter?” Nona snorted. “I don’t think so. Besides, the poems Sister Kettle would have me write wouldn’t be in any way suitable for Brides of the Ancestor. ‘Tell me a story,” Nona sang in a sickly sweet voice, “began every seduction ever’.” 

Ara stifled a laugh. “Jula would love them though.”

“Then she can write them herself.” Nona still hadn’t the patience for reading, for puzzling out what parts of a book might prove useful and what was solely lyrical hogwash. To add writing to that? No. Such pursuits she would gladly leave to the mischievous Kettle and ever studious Jula. 

Ara placed a courteous kiss between Nona’s knuckles before tossing an arm around her waist. “It’s something to consider. Neither of us is going to walk the Path to the Ancestor wearing the Red. I plan to grow old and cranky, and I’d love to have you here, scowling and muttering about young novices getting in the way.”

Nona stared up into the dome of the heavens, an amused smile tugging at her lips. Ara’s warmth seeped into her flesh to twine about her bones, the beating of her heart as strong as it was soothing. “Is that a promise?” It was worth great consideration, at the very least.

“It better be. I’m not going anywhere without you, Cage.”

“Then it’s a promise.”

This was one Thorn Nona wouldn’t mind carrying beneath her skin for the rest of her days. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while at work, and thought "Huh. Why not share it?"  
> I'm still wondering where the fandom for this series is hiding (it's okay, I don't bite) and this is my humble contribution. The second fic in the fandom. Definitely no pressure...  
> Please, read and enjoy, and definitely join me in writing more fics for the Book of the Ancestor Series. We know it deserves it.


End file.
